


make me feel the same

by susiecarter



Series: wherever i go [2]
Category: The Great Wall (2017), The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Post-Season/Series 01, Rescue, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25099987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: Will had been in business for himself for a while. He was reliable, at least as these things were measured in the Outer Rim; he could shoot straight. He knew when to smile, and when to buy a round unasked, and when to throw a punch. He had contacts. He wasn't dependent on the Mandalorian's pity in order to find himself a few quick jobs that could be run alone.But hewasdependent on the Mandalorian's pity if he wanted to have any hope whatsoever of being able to reach said contacts.(Or: the continuing crossover adventures of the Mandalorian and William Garin.)
Relationships: William Garin (The Great Wall)/The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Series: wherever i go [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1817875
Comments: 28
Kudos: 53





	make me feel the same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brenda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/gifts).



> Happy half-birthday, Brenda! I WARNED YOU. _I warned you._
> 
> For everybody else: if you read the first installment in this series, you know what's going on here. If you didn't, this is your chance to ~~ignore this ridiculous fusion and run away~~ check it out, if you want to. :D By request, this fic contains a sequence directly inspired by [this ludicrously adorable art](https://kaylabeemarie.tumblr.com/post/190631798866/din-sigh) by kaylabeemarie on Tumblr; the rest of it is sheer ridiculous essentially-standalone adventure, with pining for flavor. ... Plus or minus me indulging myself with totally unscientific nonsense worldbuilding, in the true spirit of Star Wars (with some basic inspiration drawn from Solo). What's a Western-style space opera without a train robbery? :D
> 
> As per usual, anything that seems familiar to you (including names of species, food and drink, and some technobabble but not all of it) came from Wookieepedia. Everything else (the specifics of the setting for this particular adventure, and basically everything about the train system) I made up. Sorry in advance for subjecting you to the vagaries of my imagination.

Will had been in business for himself for a while. He was reliable, at least as these things were measured in the Outer Rim; he could shoot straight. He knew when to smile, and when to buy a round unasked, and when to throw a punch. He had contacts. He wasn't dependent on the Mandalorian's pity in order to find himself a few quick jobs that could be run alone.

But he _was_ dependent on the Mandalorian's pity if he wanted to have any hope whatsoever of being able to reach said contacts.

The Mandalorian, it transpired, had absolutely no idea where he was going, in his search for the child's people. Not that he said as much, of course. But Will—

Will still knew him well enough, even now, to read between the lines.

Which meant one heading was as good as another. Will gave him one, and he gave Will a long steady helmet-stare in return.

But he didn't say no, and he didn't say Will could go fuck himself.

"Who?"

"Ssasshtra," Will said. "Ssasshtra Ssai. I don't believe you've met, but I promise you, you'll like her. She thinks I'm an idiot."

It was true. But there was something stupidly harrowing about saying it; presenting such a tentative, obvious offering to the Mandalorian, and waiting, waiting, to see whether he might—

"She's right," the Mandalorian murmured.

Will grinned.

Ssasshtra was the closest person Will had been able to think of who might have a job for him. But just because she was the closest, that didn't make her close.

They couldn't get there in a single hyperjump. That was how they ended up putting in for a little while on Tarchen.

On Tarchen-Dzirzar, to be specific. Tarchen itself was a gas giant, enormous and blue-violet. But it had moons. Eight of them, big ones, and they each did their own sort of business better than any of the rest. And Tarchen-Dzirzar—the entire surface of Tarchen-Dzirzar was one huge marketplace.

That part wasn't so strange. Will had been to village market days with a dozen vendors at the most, and he'd been to worlds where everything you set eyes on was for sale—and if it wasn't, that was because you were on the half of the planet specifically set aside for barter transactions only. Setting down on Tarchen-Dzirzar, stepping out the open hatchway and looking out: the colors, the sounds, the smells. None of that was out of the ordinary. Will had seen it, heard it, smelled it all before. He had even, on occasion, done it in the company of the Mandalorian.

But he'd never been to such a place with a child. With _the_ child—with the Mandalorian's child.

The Mandalorian forwent the hovering cradle; he had the kid strapped to his chest instead. Will could see the merit in it. In a place as crowded as this, it was all too easy to imagine the cradle being knocked into or snatched away, cut off by passersby or tipped over entirely in the bustle. Only sensible, really, to keep the kid so close to hand instead, contained within the circle of the Mandalorian's arms, impossible to lose sight of.

But it was—it made it almost hard to look at him. Will could feel something twisting itself up in his chest, so tightly it was occasionally hard to breathe around it, to see the Mandalorian in all his gleaming armor, one arm curled in absently, protectively, around the rigged cloth basin that held the child.

"Well," he said aloud, clapping his hands together, instead of letting himself linger on it like a fool. "Shall we?"

"Fuel," the Mandalorian said. "Rations. Bacta. Then we're done here."

"Right," Will said. "Of course."

The plan of attack, as plans of attack so often did, crumbled apart upon contact with the enemy. Where the enemy, in this case, was defined as the kid—the kid, and his huge round eyes.

Permanent establishments, auction houses and restaurants, credit-changers and speeder rentals, were set out in radiating spokes, intersecting and then spinning away from each other again, and were surrounded on all sides by installations of every sort: booths, tents, in every cloth and color; vendors who'd spread out blankets or set out strips of colored lights, shimmering projections of flowers, and arrayed their wares within. Nothing Will hadn't seen a hundred times before.

And yet it was impossible not to look at it as if for the first time, with the kid staring around himself in such avid fascination.

Will _was_ an idiot. He perceived it clearly, and yet he couldn't stop. He drew the child's attention this way and that, helplessly, as if it were even possible to ensure nothing were overlooked—as if the kid were even going to remember, ten minutes from now, that particular display of dancing firebees, or those specific hovering hologarlands, or that vendor's enormous hat.

It kept him elbow-to-elbow with the Mandalorian, which of course only made it worse. Will committed himself the more doggedly for his own self-conscious awareness that the Mandalorian was looking on. In a way, it helped him resign himself to it: very well, he was an idiot. The Mandalorian knew it already. This fresh evidence couldn't possibly surprise him.

They were perhaps halfway to the fuel depot that rose up in the distance when Will learned he wasn't alone.

The child blinked, and made a small trilling sound. Will and the Mandalorian looked at each other, and then down at him. And the child looked up at them, wide-eyed, and then at—

Ah. A display that seemed, upon inspection, to be mostly jewelry, little bits and bobs; but there were a few toys on offer, too, set along the near corner of the front counter. Simple, handmade. The one that appeared to have caught the kid's attention was made out of pale blue fabric, stuffed to appealing plumpness. Looked kind of like a swamp burrbit to Will, except about three times cuter, and with an uneven almost-smiling mouth stitched into place across its face, not a single bristling saw-edged tooth in evidence.

The Mandalorian looked at it, and then at the kid, and sighed, a rush of white noise through his helmet.

The vendor wasn't interested in credits, but would take wupiupi. The Mandalorian let a couple drop to the counter. Will tried not to smile too wide.

"Not a word," the Mandalorian said grimly, tucking the burrbit into place beside its delighted new owner with a long-suffering sort of air.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Will said, bright, innocent, and earned himself what he assumed was a very flat look indeed for his trouble.

They went on a little further. Will paused to poke through a tray of gadgets; the Mandalorian took on an impatient stance, but waited for him until he was done, which made something warm flicker to life in Will's chest, no matter how he endeavored to be sensible and snuff it out.

And then the child twisted round in his carrier, and made another noise.

Will and the Mandalorian both turned and looked.

It was a bright pink one this time, Will observed.

"No more," the Mandalorian said firmly.

The child stared up at him, tiny head tilted back. Will found it difficult to imagine those eyes were any less effective upside down.

"One is enough," the Mandalorian argued.

The kid looked positively mournful, ears drooping, eyes somehow managing to appear even larger than before.

And the Mandalorian wasn't made of stone. He'd given in already. But Will was made of something softer still; always had been, he thought ruefully, fingers already digging around in the pouch he kept tucked behind his belt.

"Garin," the Mandalorian said, but too late.

He hadn't had much on him, when Madari had caught him, and he'd been helpfully relieved of most of that when Madari's guard had gone through his things. But that hadn't been the first time anyone had ever shaken him down; he'd been able to keep the spare change he'd tucked into the toes of his boots. Most people didn't make you take your shoes off, and they definitely didn't pick them up and stick their hands in there once you had.

A mesarc, a handful of driit to cover the exchange fee to swap it for something more useful, and the vendor clicked their mouthparts in satisfaction and let him have the toy.

He turned around, clutching it, and the Mandalorian was looking at him.

Balefully, probably, Will thought.

"What?" Will said, bland. "This is for me. It's my favorite color."

"Your favorite color," the Mandalorian repeated, with a frankly insulting degree of skepticism.

"Absolutely," Will said. "This is mine and mine alone," he added, lifting it and shaking it so its long narrow arms and legs flopped for emphasis, "and if that little hobgoblin of yours tries to take it, we're going to have words."

He gave the kid an exceptionally stern look. The kid giggled.

"But it strikes me I don't have anywhere particularly convenient to carry it."

"Really," the Mandalorian said.

"Perhaps I should have thought about that before I bought it," Will observed.

"Mm."

"I suppose," Will added, after a contemplative beat, "I could tuck it in there next to the other one. For now. If you wouldn't mind."

He took a half-step closer. The Mandalorian's helmet tilted at a judgmental sort of angle; but he didn't actually move away.

"And if I happened to set this down somewhere when we return to the ship, and the kid borrowed it—just for a little while, to play with—well. That would be all right with me. As the owner."

"You _are_ an idiot, Garin," the Mandalorian said.

But he didn't say it like he meant it.

Will decided to take that as the permission it clearly was underneath, and reached out. The child reached back, chirping happily—for the toy, Will assumed, except the kid didn't grab it when Will brought it close enough, easing it in beside him. He stretched out that little green hand and spread it out across the back of Will's instead.

"He likes you," the Mandalorian said quietly.

Will looked up, which was obviously a mistake. He was still—he'd stepped in close to fit the toy in next to the kid, and he hadn't stepped back again just yet, and looking the Mandalorian right in the face, being that near to him, was—a mistake.

Will caught himself, cleared his throat and looked away. "Everybody likes me," he made himself say, and bumped the kid's palm gently with a fingertip, and then he moved the fuck away before he could do anything stupid.

He was an idiot. But he wasn't that much of one.

They arranged for a delivery from the fuel depot to the _Razor Crest_ ; all it took was half up front and the number of the landing pad they'd come down on. They did in fact pick up some bacta packets—best to have some on hand, Will figured, even if the kid was a sorcerer. In case he couldn't always do it, or they were separated from each other. Or, though Will didn't like to think it, in case it was the kid that got hurt.

And they got rations. It just took some time, that was all. The Mandalorian didn't have much in the way of standards, and never had. It was up to Will to do the hard work of hunting down a couple cases of something halfway decent—the kind with some actual flavor, that didn't get crumbly or turn stale and dusty, no matter how long you locked them in a cargo bay and forgot about them. And then, of course, they needed to rent a hoverlift to carry them, too.

The Mandalorian let him. Argued with him about it, of course. Told him he was being picky, that it was a wonder he'd survived as long as he had when he was so fussy about it—not in so many words, but that was what he meant.

The pile of toys stuffed in the carrier next to the kid got a little higher, one at a time. The kid had a good eye; the toys themselves got progressively smaller, so there was always just enough room, with a little work. Got to the point where the Mandalorian looked like the proud father of a dozen at least, every color of the rainbow—plus a grayish that apparently looked quite nice through a UV viewer.

In the late afternoon, when it had grown warm, they stopped for jybbuk juice, which the kid loved, and Will got himself a heaping helping of fried chorba while they were at it, which the kid stole sticks of one at a time whenever Will wasn't looking right at him. Will was pretty sure the Mandalorian was giving the kid a hand; surely the kid's arms were too short for him to reach the plate Will was carrying by himself. But of course that helmet made a damned good sabacc face.

The point was, it was easy. It was a good day.

It had been a long time since Will had had one of those.

It wasn't until they were on their way back to the _Razor Crest_ that they heard about the job.

It wasn't even on purpose, really. Just in passing, a snatch of conversation Will couldn't help but catch because it was in Basic.

"—getting _desperate_ for guards. They'll take anyone, anyone at all—"

"—course they will. It's the fourth time the train's been robbed this cycle—"

A Mon Calamarian, that was who had said it, and the tall Skakoan beside her, walking along just a couple paces ahead and gossiping away.

Will glanced at the Mandalorian, and found the Mandalorian already looking back.

A good day. But he needed to keep a level head; he shouldn't let himself get carried away, shouldn't let himself get too comfortable. There had been good days before, with him and the Mandalorian. Didn't guarantee him anything, and he knew it.

Besides, he had to keep his options open. He had to leave an escape hatch, whether it ended up being him or the Mandalorian who used it. He had to at least get started paying the Mandalorian back the way he'd promised to. That way if things went bad they wouldn't be stuck together with him caught flat-footed, not ready for it.

He had to make sure he was ready for it, this time.

"Well," Will said aloud, lightly, easily. "That sounds interesting, doesn't it? My lucky day. The sooner I can round up a few credits, the sooner I can get out of your hair." He paused, and gave the Mandalorian a considering look. "If you've got hair under that helmet, anyway."

The Mandalorian made a small amused sound, and didn't look away. "Garin," he said.

"I assume you can remember your way back to the ship without me," Will said. "I'm sure the kid'll give you some hints if you need them."

"I'm not going to get lost, Garin," the Mandalorian said, level, and then reached out and caught Will by the elbow. "You're sure you won't—need backup."

"What?" Will blinked. "Sounded like it came with the job. They said 'guards'. Besides, for all I know, whoever it is and wherever they're sending this train, maybe they're all sorted out." He turned his arm in the Mandalorian's grasp, gripped the Mandalorian's wrist and shook it a little. "I'll just go ask around, see what I can find out. Might be nothing at all."

It was all true enough. And what kind of sense would it make to chase a payday just to end up having to split it? Hardly something he should be volunteering for. And backup—

The Mandalorian wasn't his backup, and he wasn't the Mandalorian's. Not anymore. They weren't partners. Maybe they could be again—if Will played his cards right, if he didn't fuck this up. If he managed to make himself useful, dependable; if the Mandalorian was willing to let himself be convinced.

But Will wasn't going to rush it. He wasn't going to push it. He wasn't going to ask for more than it was reasonable to expect the Mandalorian to give him.

The Mon Calamarian was more than willing to be helpful, once Will had caught up with her and the Skakoan. Turned out she had a friend of a friend working the Dzirzar rail lines, and she could point him straight to their offices: tall narrow building, gleaming in the late-day sun, Tarchen hanging huge and purple in the hazy sky behind it.

There was a sign up outside, glowing letters picked out in motes of light, that said basically the same thing she had. Train to Tarchen-Pinan, in the evening, and anybody who was willing to be on it with something that could shoot long-range could count on five hundred credits in return.

Not bad. Not bad at all. Especially for just one evening's work.

It was a levitrain, obviously. Had to be timed just right—going from Dzirzar to Pinan, one moon to another, while their orbits were lined up to bring them as close as they ever got. Which also made it a pretty attractive target: it couldn't leave earlier or later, couldn't be sent on a different day. Easy pickings, for anybody who was paying attention.

Explained why they were so hard up, too. Not everybody was willing to ride on the outside of a levitrain while it was dangling between gravity wells, just waiting to get its cargo cars sliced free by pirates.

But Will had done a lot worse for a lot less.

Once he'd made the arrangements, he commed back to the _Razor Crest_ from the comm booth right outside the train yard. When he was done explaining, the Mandalorian looked at him for a long moment, and then said, "What time?"

Will rolled his eyes, and gave him the number that matched up to the local reckoning.

"How long?" the Mandalorian said.

"Oh, come on. I'll be back before you know it," Will said.

The little flickering image of the Mandalorian gave him a long steady look and then moved its little hand, and the connection closed with a crackle.

"Never much for goodbyes, were you," Will murmured to the place where it had been, with a wry shake of the head, and then went, because the last thing he wanted was to make himself late.

There were half a dozen other freelancers besides Will, plus a few security guards from the rail yard who were probably happy to collect a little hazard pay. A Nautolan, a couple of Bothans; a Togruta with some wicked tattoos and one hell of a sneer. An Aramandi, which was a surprise. Hardly ever saw them outside their own cluster.

The train itself was a lovely sleek bolt of a thing, smooth and silver, though of course it gleamed faintly violet in the light of Tarchen, which got brighter as the sky went darker around it.

Will was sent to the rear of it, and was made to accept a rifle of some sort from the train yard's armory before he went. He did it with a smile and carried it the whole length of the train, and then found a security locker in the rear car and dumped it in there, making a face at it. If pressed, he might have conceded he'd be better off with a bowcaster of some sort; but set at maximum power, and at full draw, his energy bow could give a decent accounting for itself, even at range. He couldn't shoot down a fighter in one hit, but sheer straight damage dealt wasn't the only thing that mattered.

He found a spot he liked. The levitrain had exterior railings, set low, presumably to allow for minor repairs in transit, and at each of the exterior hatches, they were paneled with durasteel to lessen the buffeting of the wind. Not ideal cover, but it would do.

He waited. Cranked his bow's settings up, and down, and then up again, drawing a partial bolt each time just to test, and then letting it shimmer away. This end of the train was all cargo—the part the pirates were probably going to try to slice off and tow away, Will thought ruefully. But that meant it was quiet. Nobody boarding. He could hear announcements of some sort in the distance, echoing out across the train yard; the lights and sounds of the rest of Dzirzar were as bright as day, beyond, and everything else was lit up periwinkle, Tarchen still hanging round and full and ghostly, covering half the evening sky.

It was beautiful, really. And yet all he could think was—the _Razor Crest_ was out there somewhere, with the child and the Mandalorian on it. The kid was probably already rolling around gleefully in his toys. And perhaps the Mandalorian was taking advantage of Will's absence, the child's distraction: up in the cockpit alone, helmet off, digging into some of their fresh rations and refusing to admit to himself that they were far superior to the mush he'd been eating before. _Did_ he have hair, under there? What color was it? Were his eyes—

"Oh, I _am_ an idiot," Will muttered under his breath, leaning to rest his forehead resignedly against the railing in front of him.

And then at last, mercifully, the train began to move.

Just forward, at first. Picking up speed, moving toward the transition point where the track—grav-track, of course, not anything visible—rose upwards.

Will could see it well before his end of the train got there. The cars ahead, one at a time, rising up in a long graceful arc, straightening out as they angled up through the atmosphere. He had room to draw a few slow breaths, to tighten his grip on the railing and close his eyes.

That was the only part he had trouble with, that take-off curve. Some people couldn't stand levitrains at all. The grav-track pulled hard in the direction of what was "down" inside the train, but "sideways" relative to whatever surface you'd just left behind; plenty of species with an innate gravity sense of their own couldn't do anything with that contradiction except get violently sick.

But for Will, it was only a problem for the length of that transition—his eyes telling him he was making one hell of a swing, and the rest of his body convinced that "down" was still under the train, right where it had always been. Once the angle wasn't changing anymore, he could put up with the horizon being sideways just fine.

The wind was loud, to start with. But soon enough the atmosphere started to thin out, and it wasn't so deafening. The grav-track must have linked up already, projected up from Dzirzar and down from Pinan, meeting smoothly in the middle, and the force-shield tunnel that went with it; Will could see the flicker of it now and then, sharp white sparks, if he looked hard enough. Reassuring, given that that was going to keep him breathing for most of the trip.

The sky darkened further, stars showing through where they hadn't been out yet down at the surface. Looking out, Will could see the horizon brightening, the shell of atmosphere more and more visible as the train sped up and away from it. The curve of Dzirzar's surface was tightening, tightening, and then—then he could see the whole thing, the full circle of the moon, the star of a sun that he'd just watched set from down there.

Any time now, he thought, and brought his bow up, flexed his fingers more firmly on and around the grip. And no sooner had he thought it than he spied the sharp glint of a ship.

Because that was what it had to be. Moving fast, faster than a star, and steady. One; no, two, Will saw. Two, and then three, and then half a dozen—he just hadn't been able to pick the lights of them apart from each other at that range, but it got easier as they swooped closer. Trying to match the speed of the train, because of course they were. Wouldn't do them much good to rip apart the cargo cars they were trying to steal.

Will took a deep breath and raised the bow, and then another as he drew. At maximum, the energy bolt that formed between his hands was as thick as two or three fingers, blazing and thrumming, and he felt the satisfaction of loosing it all the way through his shoulders.

A warning shot, mostly—and a test, but the force-shield tunnel didn't deflect it, didn't even alter the angle. Most of them didn't, but you couldn't always be sure until you tried it.

One of the ships banked a little, clearly having detected the bolt even though it had gone wide, and the rest all shuffled in response, vectors shifting. Will heard a distant shout, and somewhere further up the train a few more blasts of light were flung out, and evaded with equal ease.

And then they were there.

The grav-track might be helping Will keep himself oriented, but it also made things easier for the pirates as they boarded—the boarders could throw themselves at the train and there was no way they were going to miss, gravity yanking them in as soon as they were close enough. One came down only a carlength from Will, landing in a crouch and turning to face him: mismatched enviro-suit, patched together, and a blaster in each hand. Will ducked the first two shots, heard one ricochet off the durasteel around him, and then rolled once sideways while he was still in cover, popped up and drew and loosed.

They hadn't realized he'd moved, just as he'd hoped, and the bolt, still all the way up at maximum, was enough to not just burn a hole straight through them but knock them off the train entirely.

He'd seen another, a little further along, but he couldn't spot them now, and he didn't like that one bit. The line of ships was coming back round for another go, maybe hoping to provide some cover fire for their people, and Will loosed another bolt or two up at them as he climbed along the train—scored a decent hit to a side engine that made it flare bright and sputter, and sent that ship wheeling away to a safer distance.

And then a blaster bolt spun up from beneath him and caught him in the hip, and he swore and almost fell down between where two of the train cars hitched.

Shit—that was where the other boarder had gone, he realized, clinging to the top of the train, hauling himself up one-armed with his bow clutched tight in the other. They were between the cars: probably cutting through the maghitch, depolarizing it. He should've thought to look down.

They shot at him again and missed, the bolt sizzling up between his boots, and then he drew his legs up and they couldn't see him anymore. He lay there for a second, arm and hip both aching, and made a face out at the universe. What a stupid way that would have been to die.

And then he pulled himself round and brought his bow to bear, and took a quick look down over the end of the car.

A glance confirmed he'd been right about the general shape of things; he took the shot, and didn't hit the pirate but did hit the gadget they'd been holding up against the bulk of the maghitch, which had been making the whole thing start to glow red. It took the blast of blue light dead center and tumbled down to the grav-track with a scream of metal, and the pirate shouted something that sounded extremely angry and fired at Will half a dozen times in a row.

Seemed a little peeved, Will thought, ducking away.

The pirate shouted again, still not in any language Will knew, and Will had a handful of seconds to wonder why they didn't seem to be climbing up the side of the car and coming after him.

And then the end of the car just in front of him exploded.

His ears rang; he couldn't see. He flung out the hand that didn't have his bow in it, because if he was falling, the only place he was going to be falling toward was the grav-track—he caught something, though he couldn't tell what, with a jerk that set his shoulder on fire.

One of the ships. One of the ships had fired on him, from the side. That was what that damn pirate had been shrieking about. Hadn't hit him, though, and the ship hadn't really been far enough away to excuse that. They were holding velocity pretty well, too; couldn't even blame it on that.

No professional pride, Will thought, and managed to jackknife a leg up and hook one ankle around the strut he'd caught with his hand. He'd managed to blink most of the blazing afterimage out of his eyes, and he was—wow. He was pretty fucked.

He dug the end of his bow behind his belt, shoved it through until it was lodged firmly. It wasn't comfortable, but it wouldn't fall out. And he was going to need both hands if he was going to get out of this.

He was hanging from the lower edge of the car. The grav-track was still invisible, except maybe as a little ripple of distortion, the stars that passed behind it closer together and then further apart again. But he could _feel_ it. From here, it was trying to drag him more sideways than down, his clothes and hair tugged toward it.

He wasn't at the end of the train anymore. He'd come up nearly half a dozen cars, going after the first boarder and then the second. And if he ended up between the grav-track and the train—that close, the grav-track's force was going to distort _him_.

And as if that wasn't enough, the ship that had fired on him was still hovering a little too close for comfort, clearly trying to get another shot at him. The grav-track was probably throwing off their sensors. But they'd figure out how to compensate soon enough—sooner than he was going to be able to climb back up this damn train.

Fantastic, he thought, and gritted his teeth, pulling himself along the strut. On reflection, five hundred credits really hadn't been enough for this job.

He risked a glance at the ship. There was another coming up behind it. Which obviously was exactly what he needed. And then he took another look, and laughed.

It _was_ exactly what he needed.

It was the _Razor Crest_.

One laser cannon lit up bright, and then the other. The pirates had had no idea it was coming, and the ship tore apart from back to front and then tumbled away, left behind as the train sped on.

"Hey!"

Will looked up.

It was the Togruta—she'd been next to last along the train, with him all the way at the end. She'd climbed halfway down the side of the car, and she was reaching down toward him, gesturing impatiently.

"Come on, come on. You are one lucky dosh, you know that?"

"Yeah," Will said, and reached up to clasp her hand.

It was quick work after that, really. Up at the head of the train, they'd had even better luck, blown a pirate vessel out of the sky with a pair of well-timed shots and then a second had collided with it. Down to half strength, the pirates weren't exactly eager to keep pushing. Half the boarders were dead, and the rest had been secured well before the train hit atmosphere on Pinan.

Will's hip had even stopped bleeding, pretty much.

Somehow, the Mandalorian didn't seem impressed to be told this, while they were standing in the train yard on Pinan waiting to get paid.

"Is that so," he said, very flatly.

Will grinned at him, helpless to prevent it. It was just—he hadn't asked. He'd deliberately avoided it, and he'd told himself it was better that way; and then the Mandalorian had come for him anyway.

It didn't take long for them to end up at the head of the line. "One payout, or two?" said the incredibly bored Cerean with the credit chits.

Will looked at the Mandalorian. The Mandalorian looked back.

"If you can prove you signed on separately, you're entitled to a fee apiece. If you—"

"We're partners," the Mandalorian said.

The Cerean blinked. "Fine," he said, and handed the Mandalorian a chit. "Five hundred."

"Should've said two," Will said, on the way back to the _Razor Crest_ , when his throat had stopped feeling too tight to let the words out.

"Couldn't have proved it," the Mandalorian said.

Will bit down on the inside of his cheek, but it didn't help. He couldn't stop smiling.

"You know, if you keep inviting yourself to my paydays, it's going to take like twice as long for me to get you what you're owed."

The Mandalorian glanced at him, the barest tilt of the helmet, and then away. "That's your problem," he said, "not mine."

The _Razor Crest_ was waiting for them on the landing pads at the far end of the train yard, clean familiar outline against the violet-lit sky. The Mandalorian stopped at the top of the ramp, and tucked the chit away in his utility belt—dug around for a second, and counted out a stack of credits, and held them out.

Will took them, and eyed them; counted half back out.

"That's your half—"

"Half of my half," Will said. "First installment. Wouldn't want you thinking I'm not good for it."

The Mandalorian looked at him, and then took it—closed his gloved, gauntleted hand over Will's, fingertips brushing the whole length of Will's palm as he caught them up.

Will cleared his throat and moved away, a beat too slow. He was—he needed bacta. For his hip. No point making the kid do it, not for something that small. Bacta. Yeah.

He waited until he was alone in the fresher, facing away, listening to the Mandalorian climb the ladder to the cockpit, before he let himself close his hand, rubbing his own fingertips across his palm.

It didn't matter. He could still feel the Mandalorian's touch anyway.

"You're an idiot, Will Garin," Will told the bacta packet, tearing the corner open. "But you're also one lucky dosh."


End file.
